


Against All Odds

by nayahasmyheart



Category: Glee
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayahasmyheart/pseuds/nayahasmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany Pierce, a tribute from District 1, and Santana Lopez, a tribute from District 11, are thrown into an arena with twenty-two other tributes for the 68th Hunger Games. Only one can survive. And may the odds be ever in their favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. District 1, Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this fic in the same style that Suzanne Collins wrote The Hunger Games, which is why it is in first person and present tense. The chapters will switch from first person Brittany to first person Santana.

Chapter 1: District 1, Reaping

Brittany

 

\- - -

 

I’m lying in my bed with my eyes tightly shut. The warm sun reddens my eyelids and I know that the time has come for me to get out of bed. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to face today.

Today is the day that I’ve been dreading my entire life. The day that I’ve been vigorously trained for from my first step as a toddler to today, fifteen years later as a seventeen-year-old. I was to grow up to be like my parents—a glorious victor of District 1. I am to bring honor to our district, to continue the long line of triumphs over the other districts. But doing so would mean to kill innocent human beings. Innocent teenagers who haven’t yet had the chance to begin their lives. Although, from what I hear about the other districts, I’m not sure that they would even want to.

District 1 is one of the wealthier districts, though not nearly as wealthy as the Capitol, of course. We produce all of the luxury items for the Capitol. Diamonds, other precious gems, jewelry. And since we’re the district that brings the Capitol the things that they love most, we receive the best treatment out of all of the districts.

In that sense, we’re by far the most fortunate. Rumors tell that the other districts live in terrible poverty and have to provide things like lumber and coal for the Capitol, which must be much harder work than making jewelry. We do have our miners in this district, of course, who retrieve the precious gems, but they are the lowest in the social pyramid and nowhere near the victors. My father and mother make a habit of spitting on the miners when they pass them by. They even gave them a cruel “nickname” which has caught on and has been used by other upper class citizens—Garbageers. Because they’re nothing but worthless garbage to them.

In that sense, we, the victors and their children, are the luckiest of all. But in another sense, we’re also the most miserable. There are some of us who don’t mind it so much. They try to wire us to despise, to yearn to destroy the other tributes, and it works for some. But it didn’t for me. I always end up thinking about the lives of the other tributes, or the lives that they had before those were mercilessly snatched away from them. I think about their families and their facial expressions when they see me pull my knife out of their daughter’s chest. I think about how they will forever remember my face and seek revenge. How they will never forgive me, how I will never forgive myself, for something that was entirely out of my control.

And then there’s the possibility that I won’t win. The likelihood that today will be the last day that I spend in District 1. There was the very probable possibility that I would die in that arena.

I’ve wished many times that I were born into a different family. I would have preferred to grow up poor with a family that loved me rather than grow up wealthy with a family that literally only wants me alive if I bring glory to the district. A family that would make their only daughter volunteer to die.

The door of my room creaks open and my mother’s boots click into the room. “Brittany! Wake up! Today’s the big day!”

I reluctantly open my eyes to find her powdered face looming over me. She has the typical face of a victor—skin pulled tightly and lips overly plump due to collagen. Everything about her screams, “Rich! Wealthy! Money! Fortune! Look at me, I’m the victor from District 1! Behold and bow down to Shimmer Pierce!” 

I cough a little at the sharp and powerful smell of her perfume as she straightens her back to give me space to stand up. As I do, my face entirely unenthusiastic, she brings my chin up with a long nail so that I’ll look her straight in the eyes. “Now where’s that smile we’ve been working on? You need to look absolutely perfect for the reaping!”

The tips of my lips pull into a halfhearted and somewhat sarcastic smile. I have this terribly sour feeling in my stomach. I keep asking myself the same question over and over again—when the time comes, will I kill or let myself be killed? Neither option seems very appealing.

The one thing that comforts me is the knowledge of how powerful I am. I may be a girl, but I’m stronger and faster than any boy who’s been trained for the Hunger Games. I can sprint for miles with a hundred pound weight on my back. Maybe I can run and hide in the arena until they all kill each other.

My mother shoves me out of the room and into the shower. “Make sure you scrub in all the little places! You want to leave an impression!”

I turn to look at her and she slams the door in my face. Ugh. So typical of her.

I strip out of my pajamas and step into the shower. Whenever I turn on the water in the shower, I take a moment to thank whoever is up there for letting me have warm water. So many people don’t. And those who do take it for granted. But I appreciate every little thing in my life. Maybe because I’ve always known that my life will most likely be over before I turn eighteen.

My thoughts turn to my mother again. There’s just no way that she’s always been this bubbly and feminine. I mean, she won the Hunger Games. She had to be tough at some point in her life. She’s ruthless, yes. That I’ve always seen. I don’t have a hard time imagining her carelessly chopping off heads. But how is it that she didn’t get killed first?

After scrubbing in all the little places, I step out of the shower and begin to dry myself off with a soft towel. I unfold the dress that my mother had picked for me and lift it before me. I cringe and gasp at the same time, which probably makes me look like a moronically incompetent squirrel. What is that?

It looks like a cross between a poodle and a whale. It’s a disgusting shade of gold that will look awful with my skin, and its shoulders are so sharp that it looks like it could poke someone’s eye out. From the pointy shoulders dangle long links of gold rings, which connect to each other in the back. Its hem won’t even reach my knees, and the dress poofs out beneath the waist so that it looks like the wearer of the dress is a floating gold ball of doom.

I sigh deeply and shake my head. Not only am I volunteering for my death today, but I also have to look like a ridiculous ostrich when I do it.

I carefully slip it on, trying not to get impaled by the shoulders. It fits tightly around my chest; too tightly for my liking. After struggling with the zipper in the back, I turn around to face the mirror and evaluate the catastrophe.

It‘s even more appalling than I imagined. The dress is too short for my lengthy body, which means that if I even bend down just slightly, all of District 1 along with anyone who’s watching on television will get a lovely view of my glorious sitting pillows.

Before I can peel the disgusting dress off of me and tell my mother that there’s no way that I’m wearing it, she bursts into the bathroom and squeals delightedly as she sees me. “Oh, Brittany, you’re perfect!”

“Mother—”

“Shush, shush, no speaking! Remember, tough and beautiful, that’s what you are! There’s no need for simple and petty words when you’re about to win the 68th Hunger Games!”

I glare at her. Her blonde curls bounce around happily as she pulls me out of the bathroom and back to my room. She forcefully sits me down on a decorated chair in front of a mirror and begins to alter my hair to her liking. I gaze at her in the mirror as she mercilessly pulls on my hair. She’s exactly what they want at the Capitol. An insignificant tribute who becomes one of them. Well, I won’t. Even if I win, I’ll never become one of them.

“All ready!” she skips around joyously and I stare at myself in the mirror. If I thought that I looked horrible before, it was nothing compared to now.

My hair is curled to the point that it just looks utterly ridiculous. Precious gems of different colors make up a hairband that is firmly latched onto my head. I look like some creature from some horror movie, like the ones that my parents told me that they show in the Capitol.

My mother pulls me out of the chair and drags me down the stairs to the kitchen. My father, the infamous Glint Pierce, is sitting at the dining table, reading a newspaper. When we enter, he looks up and his mouth stretches into a grin. “There’s my perfect little baby girl.”

I roll my eyes and sit down across from him at the table. He’s only “loving” when he wants something from me. And at this moment, he wants me to bring glory and honor to our family. To serve a reason for him to continue to say our family’s motto: “We’re Pierce and we’re fierce!” What an idiotic motto, really.

My mother hurriedly serves us breakfast, all the while muttering, “Happy day! Happy day!”

I pick up my fork and push my food around the plate. I’m really not hungry. In fact, I feel like I’m about to puke my guts out. I guess that’s what happens when you know that you’re facing a death sentence.

“Let’s go, Brittany, eat, eat, eat! You want to be nice and full for the reaping! You can’t faint on the stage in front of everyone!”

“I’m not hungry, Mother.”

“Oh, it’s alright, Shimmer, soon she’ll have some quality Capitol food to munch on,” my father’s unnaturally aligned teeth are revealed once again as he smiles proudly. “You’ll enjoy every bit of it, Brittany, I promise.”

Yeah, that’s very likely. I drop my fork on the table and look everywhere except at my parents. I have a feeling that if I see their delighted facial expressions, then I might really throw up.

After breakfast, my parents and I begin to make our way out of the house and to District 1’s Justice Building. We walk through the Victor’s Village, which is composed of a horseshoe of blindingly white houses that wrap around a small park and pond. As we walk past the houses, we come to the training arena, where the children get trained to become Careers.

District 1’s Justice Building is a tall marble structure with great pillars and glossy walls. Before it stands a large platform, on which a podium has been placed. On the podium is the symbol of the Capitol, a sort of eagle whose feet clutch onto a batch of arrows. Two glass balls sit on either side of the podium. Before the platform is a sea of District 1’s eager and not-so-eager citizens.

“Alright, Brittany,” my father grips my shoulder firmly. “We have to go up to the platform as the mentors of the tributes. But you know the drill. When the female tribute is chosen, you will volunteer. Are we clear?”

I nod reluctantly as he loosens his grip on my shoulder and begins to make his way to the platform. I gaze around me. I would’ve tried to find my friends, except I don’t have any friends. No one wants to be the friend of the daughter whose parents spit on miners and walk around with their noses high up in the air.

I stand in the crowd and hug my arms around my chest, hoping that the shoulders of my dress won’t skewer some innocent little kid. I can see the judgmental faces of some of my schoolmates as they point and giggle at my ludicrous outfit.

The mayor of our district, a plump man with a fat white moustache, steps up to the podium and clears his throat. He begins, as he does every year, to tell the long and difficult history of Panem. His monotone voice drones on about the natural disasters and the hardships that the people had to face before creating this amazing country. He tells how the glorious Capitol took charge over thirteen districts, which, in their opinion, needed to be shown the “right ways.” In other words, become their slaves. But then came the Dark Days. The districts began an uprising against the Capitol. The Capitol, in turn, defeated all of them, and even wiped District 13 off of the map. The Treaty of Treason was written to impose new laws on us, and to remind us just how powerful and scary the Capitol is, they also created the Hunger Games.

The mayor goes on to read the long list of District 1’s victors. My parents, who are sitting in black chairs on the platform, expand their chests and raise their chins as their names are called. My father is asked to give a small speech, and he stands tall on his feet and walks to the podium. He places both of his hands on either side of it and gazes around proudly before beginning his speech.

“Today is a glorious day for me. Today, my daughter will volunteer to bring honor to our district. We’ve trained her, trained her well, since she was just a tiny little toddler. I’ve never been more sure of anything, than that my daughter, Brittany, will be coming home from this year’s Hunger Games.”

The crowd claps politely, but quite unenthusiastically. No one likes a pompous ass.

The mayor returns to introduce District 1’s escort, a bubbly young woman named Neenee Max who is sent from the Capitol every year for the Hunger Games. Today she has magenta hair and is wearing a neon blue dress suit. She smiles widely at us as if this is the moment that she’s been waiting for her entire life. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” She claps cheerfully as her cobalt lips stretch into an even wider smile. “Now let’s begin with the drawing! Boys first!”

She crosses the stage to the glass ball on the left, her unbelievably high heels clicking on the metal. She reaches an enthusiastic hand and extracts a little white piece of paper. But no one is worried. Everyone knows that even if their names are the ones that are chosen, someone else will volunteer for them. That’s how it always is in our district.

She makes her way back to the podium, clears her throat, and says, “Wonder Jiller!” 

Wonder Jiller, a fourteen-year-old boy and a son of a miner, doesn’t even bother to walk to the platform. A deep voice rings loudly and clearly through the square before he even has the chance to. “I volunteer.”

Everyone makes way as Flicker Longis walks proudly to the platform. I sigh in disgust. Why him?

Flicker Longis is also a child of two victors. His parents and mine have been head to head their entire lives. In my parents’ eyes, it is my destiny to destroy the Longis family’s pride. If I did that, then I would truly bring ultimate happiness to them.

Flicker steps up onto the platform and stands beside Neenee, who is eyeing him up and down in satisfied wonderment. “Well, then!” she grins into the microphone. “We have a volunteer! Your name?”

“Flicker Longis,” he says, his face hard and expressionless.

“Flicker Longis, everyone! Your male tribute!”

The crowd claps and some cheers rise from his friends and family. I begin to bounce my knee up and down, anxious at what’s about to happen.

“And now, for our female tribute!” Neenee clicks over to the glass ball on the right, sticks a quick hand in it, and picks out a random note. Once she’s back before the microphone, she says, “Glitter Nilly!” 

Both of my knees are bouncing now and my breathing is staggered and unstable. I notice my parents’ threatening glares from the platform. “I volunteer,” I say weakly.

“What was that?” Neenee looks around at the crowd. “Did I hear someone volunteer?”

The people around me back off so that there’s a clear path to the platform for me to walk through. I try to catch my breath as I begin to make my way toward the platform. After what seems like ages of walking through endless bodies and faces, I finally reach the stage. My throat is parched and my tongue feels like paper.

When I finally find my way to Neenee, she beams joyously at me. Her magenta hair is quite blinding from this close distance. “And your name?”

“Brittany Pierce,” I say, my voice almost hushed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of District 1, I present to you your volunteer female tribute! This wonderful girl here, Brittany Pierce!”


	2. District 11, Reaping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany Pierce, a tribute from District 1, and Santana Lopez, a tribute from District 11, are thrown into an arena with twenty-two other tributes for the 68th Hunger Games. Only one can survive. And may the odds be every in their favor.

Chapter 2: District 11, Reaping

Santana

 

\- - -

 

I’m lying in my bed with my eyes widely open. Bud and Apple, my nine-year-old siblings, hug me tightly from each side. I run my left hand through Apple’s long, thick hair as my right hand caresses Bud’s forehead. They’re still asleep, in their dreamland where everything is different and they have happy lives. Where their names won’t be put into the drawing in a mere three years. They know what’s to come, and they’re petrified of it. They’ve watched the Games, they’ve seen the Career tributes. They know that if they are chosen to participate, their chances of surviving will be nearly nonexistent. And I know this, too.

But when they bring the matter up, I simply hug them tightly until it hurts and tell them that they still have time, and that maybe things will change by the time that their names are put in. But they don’t believe me, and, to be honest, I don’t even believe myself.

At the moment, they’re afraid that I will be chosen to participate. I’ve had my name put into the drawing several times in exchange for tesserae, which was the only way that my family could have a substantial supply of oil and grain. No one but me could do this for my family; my parents are too old to receive tesserae and my brother and sister too young. So this year, my name will be put into the drawing thirty-six times. Six times for each year that has passed between ages twelve to seventeen, and thirty times for every year’s supply of oil and grain for my family. Let’s just say that the odds aren’t exactly in my favor.

What kind of sick people think of a thing such as the Hunger Games? What kind of people think that watching twenty-four teenagers fight to the death is merry entertainment? It’s all just a game to them. They place their bets, ooh and ahh as one teenager dies by the terrified hands of another. The citizens of the Capitol don’t view us as humans with feelings and lives and families. It’s all just a show. The tragedies that take place in the arena are nothing more than television soap opera dramas to them. The mere thought of such people causes my stomach to twist with hatred.

I’m frightened to be chosen, but not for the obvious reasons. If I am chosen, Bud and Apple will have no one to care for them. My father, a stern and distant man, is hardly ever home. He has the most difficult job of us all—the cotton fields. All of the strongest boys and men are sent to the cotton fields. They leave before dawn and return after dusk. My father rarely ever has any time for us, and even when he does, he chooses to spend it alone. My mother, a frail woman who just doesn’t have the time to care for her children, works in the barley fields. She loves us with all of her heart and treats us as best as she can during the little time that she spends at home. Which leaves me to care for Bud and Apple. I don’t mind it; I take them to school every day, cook for them, wash them, make sure that they’re healthy, or, as healthy as one can be in this poverty. And in the harvest season, when school closes and we’re all sent to work, I take them with me to the orchards, where we pick fruit off of trees. When they were younger and didn’t quite understand our situation, they called me “Mommy” because they thought that I was their mother.

If I am sent to the Hunger Games, which will almost certainly mean that I will die, how will they get by? Who will obtain grain and oil through tesserae? Who will risk their lives just so that Bud and Apple could eat?

I had risked my life for them. Once. My father had gotten hurt in the cotton fields, and he had to stay at home, which also meant that he would not receive any rations until he was back in the fields. It was a very difficult time, and we had so very little to eat. We would each eat barely an ounce of stale meat a day, and even that was extremely hard to come by. And one day, my siblings just couldn’t get out of bed. They tried to, but, every time, their horridly thin bodies would give out under them. So I went to the orchards that day by myself. I was assigned to work in the apple orchard that day, which meant that I would be climbing up on trees all day. After I was finally let out, I quickly hid a couple of apples in my bag and hurried out of the orchard. I brought the apples home to my siblings and they devoured them in seconds.

But I had been seen. The next morning, there was pounding on our front door, and three burly Peacekeepers barged into our house to drag me out to the town square, which was buzzing with people on their ways to work. They threw me to the ground and flung their merciless whips at me, again and again and again. By the time that they finally stopped, I was blind with pain and tears, and my throat burned from screaming. My father carried me home, and it took days for the deep cuts to finally heal so that I could go back to work.

But I was lucky. I had seen many of District 11’s citizens get killed on the spot for breaking the rigid laws of the Capitol. Innocent people who had failed to come to work or obtained things through the black market or maybe just stole some food so that their siblings wouldn’t die. I was thankful that I had gotten a whipping instead of a death sentence.

Apple stirs beside me and I look down to see her large, worried eyes. I can see the fear boiling up inside of her. Her arm tightens around me and she whispers, “Please let them choose someone else.”

I kiss her forehead and turn my head to the filthy window. The sun’s already out, and it must be around eight in the morning. I groan softly and nudge Bud a little so that he would wake up. He looks sleepy and hazed at first, but then realization dawns on him and his face turns grim.

“Come on,” I sit up and throw the thin blanket off of us. “Let’s get ready.”

Something smells delicious in the kitchen. My mother is cooking at the makeshift stove, and she turns her head to us when she hears us enter. She smiles lamentably.

Apple runs to her and stands on her tiptoes so that she could see what my mother is cooking. “Is—is that—chicken?”

I hurry to the stove. My mother is indeed cooking half of a chicken under very minimal seasoning. “Where did you get chicken, Mom?”

“In the black market,” she flips it over in the aged pan.

“Must’ve cost you a fortune…” I lick my lips as the incredibly appetizing smell percolates into my nose.

“A whole month’s supply of grain.”

I shake my head and take a seat at the table. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to have a treat,” she shrugs. “It is reaping day, after all.”

When my mom finishes to cook, she cuts the chicken and leaves the biggest piece, the chicken breast, on a plate for my dad. Then she serves Bud and Apple the thigh and gives me a whole leg, all for myself.

“What about you?” I ask hesitantly, my mouth watering at the smell.

“I’ll eat something else later,” she smiles reassuringly at me.

I bring the small drumstick to my mouth, close my eyes, and take a bite. It tastes so wonderful that I quickly take another bite before swallowing the first one. I’ve only had chicken once before because it’s so expensive. Chicken is an extremely rare delight.

I’m about halfway through finishing my share when I look up to see Bud and Apple staring hungrily at the meat in my hands. They’ve already finished their portion, and it’s almost like I can hear their stomachs grumbling for more. I glance regretfully at the half-finished chicken leg and then hold it toward them. They grin gratefully as Bud leans across the table to grab it and they begin to devour what little meat is left on the bone.

“Santana, darling,” my mom puts a caring hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you go wash and get ready for the reaping?”

I nod grimly and make my way out of the kitchen and to the shower room. Or, better phrased, the room with the large wooden bucket that contains freezing water. I sigh deeply and begin to strip myself of my grimy clothes. I plant a chair right by the bucket, sit in it, and, with an old sponge, begin to scrub the layers of dirt off of my body.

I gaze at my protruding ribs as I wash myself. What’s it like to live in the Capitol? To have unlimited amounts of food? To wear clean clothes every morning? To not have to constantly be in a fight for your life? It seems unreal, impossible. An entirely foreign idea that has no place in District 11.

Are the other districts struggling in the way that we are? There are rumors about some of the other districts, like District 12, whose citizens supposedly live in poverty just like us. But what about the others? What about the districts that produce Career tributes like Districts 1 and 2? Do they receive special treatment for proving as the Capitol’s most delightful source of entertainment? The Careers always look so fit and muscular and healthy. So different from us. Do they receive extra food while the rest of us are left to starve?

Once again, I am overcome by hatred for the Capitol and its corruption. The lack of fairness is utterly repulsive. I grit my teeth and scrub myself more violently at the thought.

When I am finished, I wrap the towel that my mother has laid out for me around my body and walk to my room. On the chair by my bed lies a simple dress in a soft shade of red. It’s one of my mother’s. I put the towel aside, slip on some undergarments, and then carefully put on the dress. It has a modest ribbon the ties in the back, making the dress better fitted. I turn to the small mirror on the wall to gaze at myself.

My damp hair is spread across my shoulders, wetting the thin fabric. I think about how this dress would look much better on me if I weren’t so skinny. My eyes are despondent and my face grim. I sigh deeply, rip my gaze off of the mirror, and make my way back to the kitchen.

Bud and Apple are already dressed in their best clothes, and Apple’s hair is tied back in a high ponytail. They’re sitting on two flimsy chairs as their legs swing back and forth in anxiety. My lips stretch into a small but reassuring smile. “It’ll be okay,” I say.

The reaping is to be held in the town square, as usual. My mother, my siblings, and I leave the house and walk quietly across the streets, which are buzzing with families on their ways to the reaping. Our shoes chafe against the gravel at our feet.

A stage was set up before the Justice Building, and a pink banner that is stretched above it reads, “Welcome to the Reaping!” I chuckle sourly at the irony of the optimistic sign in such a horrible event.

The kids whose names are put into the drawing are told to file into a small space before the stage. Bud and Apple hug me tightly from either side, their small hands clenching onto my dress. I caress their heads and whisper, “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

I lean down to them and lightly kiss their foreheads. Then I turn to my mother, who’s standing to our right. A sad smile spreads across her face as she says, “Good luck.”

I pull her into a firm hug, and then proceed to the area in front of the stage. I easily find my best friend, Spring Yeld. She grins sarcastically at me and says, in fake overenthusiasm, “Are you ready?”

I roll my eyes at the dark-skinned girl. Spring and I are a sort of inseparable duo. We grew up together, and she, like me, has little siblings to care for. She knows firsthand the hardships that I have to go through.

Someone clears their throat into the microphone and the crowd hushes and turns its attention to the stage. What we see is nearly blinding. Our district’s escort, sent straight from the Capitol, Boopie Bee, could not possibly look more out of place in all of the dirt and quiet but evident fear. Looking at her hurts my eyes nearly as much looking straight at the sun. Her hair is the brightest shade of yellow that you can imagine, and her lips and dress suit match her hair in a disgustingly perfect way. It’s almost like she’s emitting heat from her bright rays. I squint my eyes slightly at the sight.

She smiles widely at us, her perfectly aligned teeth shining brightly under her golden lips. “Welcome, welcome, and happy Hunger Games! Regrettably enough, your mayor has come down with some sort of strange sickness, and he will not be able to host this event for us this afternoon. So I will replace him! Isn’t that exciting?”

Her everlasting confidence doesn’t falter at the sea of unenthusiastic faces that’s looking up at her. Spring and I sigh hopelessly in unison. Boopie’s obnoxious grin remains on her face as she continues on, “Let’s start at the top, then, shall we? Almost a century ago, a tragedy fell upon this world. Horrible disasters, bloody wars. It seemed as though the human race would become extinct, simply disappear into thin air. But at the last moment, the Capitol, a beautiful city with the most brilliant government, emerged from the ashes of disaster. The Capitol took it upon itself to better the lives of the people around it by separating them into districts and providing hard but rewarding work for them, along with great amounts of food for each family so that each child grows up to be strong and beautiful. But then—the Dark Days. District 13 led an entirely unreasonable rebellion against the virtuous Capitol, attempting to create havoc in the country of Panem. But, very thankfully, they were unsuccessful. The Capitol struck it down, along with the other districts. After such an event, it was decided that the Capitol must rule the districts with an iron fist. Our wonderful government created a yearly event called the Hunger Games, in which a boy and a girl are chosen from each district to fight to the death. And since then, Panem has been a pleasant and peaceful place to live in.”

It’s obvious that Boopie is expecting enthusiastic clapping for her speech, but we all just stand there and glare up at her. I’m sure that everything looks very flowery from her side.

Her relentless smile continues to shine down at us, and she says, “You’ve only got one victor that’s still alive, so why don’t you all please welcome Daisy Loon!” She turns back and looks expectantly at the woman sitting in the chair behind her.

Daisy Loon, or, as some of the kids call her, Daisy Loony, rocks back and forth in her chair. I had always felt badly for her. After her victory in the Hunger Games, Daisy was driven to madness by her guilt for killing the other tributes. It’s impossible to get anything rational out of her, which is probably why we hadn’t had any victors since. She’s a thin woman with stringy hair, and it’s evident that she doesn’t take very good care of herself. Any tribute is helpless in her feeble hands.

Boopie waits for a little while longer, watching Daisy hum quietly to herself, before turning back to the microphone. “Well, it seems like Daisy wouldn’t like to speak at the moment. So,” she jumps up happily, “it’s time! Let’s begin with the drawing! Ladies first! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

Her heels click on the stage as she makes her way toward the glass ball that contains the names of the female teenagers of District 11. She reaches a confident hand in and quickly extracts a white note and begins to make her way back to the microphone. I crack my back uneasily and look around. Bud and Apple’s worried faces are gazing at me from the other side of the square, and I smile reassuringly at them and mouth, “It’s okay.”

Boopie clears her throat into the microphone as her mouth stretches into that unyielding smile of hers. I find myself holding my breath as she gazes at the fearful crowd and finally calls out, “Santana Lopez!”


End file.
